Letter from Casablanca Read Online Free PDF Page B

maybe she really was asleep. I heard Nena scolding her Belafonte. She said, “You silly thing! How is it possible you don’t appreciate a bow like this? Why do you insist on ruining it, silly? None of the other cats have one.” I raised the latch of the window screen and called to her in a low voice, “Pst, pst, Nena! Come into the house and we’ll have a snack. Do you want bread or ricotta? Or would you rather have jam? I’ll open a jar.” And she ran cheerfully, leaving Belafonte, who tried in vain to untie the bow from his neck, in the lurch. She was completely satisfied that I had finally remembered her. Perhaps she still had the hope she would succeed in convincing me to be the architect.
    Mama usually came alive around six. She walked through the house putting in order whatever there was to put in order, moving a knickknack an inch or two, smoothing a wrinkled lace doily under a vase. Then she came into the kitchen, washed the dishes that she had not had the heart to wash aftereating, and set about to get supper, but without any hurry because there was nothing else to do all evening. Tommaso would not return before ten o’clock. They would give him some soup at the nursing home, where he spent all his days now because his cousin was sick and the young ladies let him stay with him the whole day. “Indeed, they’ll do a favor for anyone who’ll do their sweeping for them,” said Mama disdainfully.
    It was the nicest part of the whole day. At least we were together with Mama. We finally talked a little, even if il wasn’t really a proper conversation, but there was always some small satisfaction. The radio, for example, which could be turned on, and even if it broadcast songs, Mama didn’t change the station as long as the volume was low and provided that Nena implored, “Please, Mama, give us a little music.” And how could you resist her when she made her voice both cajoling and sad? But I preferred a gentleman who talked about the whole world and evoked the capitals which were represented in my geography book. How I liked to stay and listen to him! He would say, “Today in Paris General DeGaulle in consultation on the Suez problem …” and I closed my eyes and saw the Eiffel Tower of my book, slender and all openwork, the pyramids, and the Sphinx with her face gnawed by the weather and the desert dust.
    In bed I found it hard to fall asleep. I remained with my eyes open staring at the glimmer from the windowpane, listening to the regular breathing of Nena, who slept peacefully. Before going to bed Mama came to make an on-the-spot investigation, because Belafonte often slipped under Nena’s bed and then during the night slept curled up at her feet, and Mama said that it was not hygienic. But by this time Belafonte succeeded in getting away with it because he understood the method and got out from under the bed only when the house was perfectly quiet. I didn’t say anything, even though I didn’tlike Belafonte, because it was obvious that Nena needed a little company.
    So, in the dark of the bedroom, while Nena slept and Belafonte purred or scratched the sheet with his claws, I remained listening to the noise of the trains that whistled as they left the city. Often I imagined going away. I saw myself get on one of those trains at night, stealthily, when the train slowed down because of work in progress on the roadbed. I had a tiny suitcase with me, my watch with the luminous hands, and my geography book. The corridors had soft carpets, the compartments were lined with red velvet and had white linen headrests, there was an odor of tobacco and upholstery, the few travelers slept, the lamps were low and light blue. I settled myself in a deserted compartment, opened my geography book, and decided that I would go to one of those photographs. Sometimes it was “The City of Light from the Top of Notre Dame,” sometimes “The Parthenon in Athens at Sunset.” Bui the photograph which attracted me the most